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by James-Padfoot
Summary: This is a 'what if' if Pan wasn't such a little creep, if they had a moment to breathe. A little fluff piece.


_*wibbly wobbly smile* I needed something happy. So this is a what if Pan wasn't such a little shit, and they had just like one week of being home at Storybrooke before the pan hits the ceiling. _

* * *

He'd known. He'd known right from the start that she was special, that there was something inexplicably _right_ about her. He'd known when she'd sassed him up while he was tied up to a tree – despite the fact that Aurora, Mulan, Snow White and Emma threatened to leave him to the ogres, that Emma was in some way special.

He remembered the fierce, confident way she'd pressed a blade to his neck after pulling him from the rubble, a set-up; she'd known, and he had been impressed. And that whole time, Killian knew it had nothing whatsoever to do with the shape of her body, but more to do with the fierce intensity and intelligence she'd shown. She had bested him, and there were few who could boast of such things.

So in many ways, Killian Jones had always known that Emma Swan was special. Because she'd made him give it up, his one defining motivator for living _three hundred and fifty_ bloody years; not that she knew, even now, the extent of how in the span of a few months she had completely upended his life on its head.

Funnily enough, it had been Cora, the woman who had ripped out her own heart to protect it from love (and he had never expected the Crocodile, of all people, to have shared this tale), to have been the first to call him out on it. "You chose her," Cora had said, in the aftermath of the spectacle that had been the giant beanstalk. He had, although at the time, he hadn't quite grasped the severity of her words. Or its truth.

Since their return to Storybrooke, though, the risks he had taken in divulging his vulnerability had began seeing fruition, even if excruciatingly slow. Killian Jones was if anything, patient, and so he had consistently stayed by Emma's side, noting every time _she chose him _in even littlest of things, like how she would talk and rationalize her thoughts with him before her mother, or how she fished for reassurance from him before deciding on ways to reach out to Henry post-Neverland. But for all that, he had kept his distance when it came to being intimate, letting the tension and passion build so _she_ would be the one to cross the line and break it.

After all, it wasn't like there was much time for romance. Much to his chagrin (and everyone else in town, it seemed) there was never ending drama. This time, by bringing back the demon that was Pan, they'd somehow (wholly by accident) brought back Neverland's curse. Killian wasn't sure he understood how the magic worked exactly, and didn't trust it, but as Regina and Rumplestiltskin told it, everyone who had ever been born in the Enchanted Forest would be returned there, that Neverland's much more powerful magic would undo that of Regina's original curse. This had sent Emma in a panic, because even though she'd barely spent ten minutes after birth in the Enchanted Forest, for all intents and purposes, she had been born there. That left Henry, who had been born in Pheonix, and Dr. Victor Frankenstein who was apparently from a land without colour.

Killian sipped on his hot cocoa (he had learned quickly that it was Emma's favorite, and concurred that she had good taste), watching the town people around him as he mulled this over. Everyone was preparing to return home, excited, but they were also scared. He could see it in the way people were eating, as though many of this world's luxuries would not follow to the Enchanted Forest. Chocolate, for one, was something Killian remembered being sparse and reserved for royalty. But here, it was everywhere, and one could procure it with little money or effort.

"No hello for me, Jones?" a teasing voice called out from behind him, and Killian did his best not to jump.

"Emma," he said, watching her as she came into view. He waved a free hand at the empty seat in front of him, which she took without hesitation. She was nursing a cup of cocoa, and Killian grinned at the slight foam-mustache she was sporting.

"You look like you're deep in thought," she said, licking the top of her lip.

Killian eyed the movement of her tongue, choosing his words carefully. "Just people watching," he said.

She eyed him, taking another sip, and he did his best to hold her gaze steadily. After a moment, she seemed satisfied and stretched her legs, coming to rest in between his own. It was a strangely intimate gesture but he wasn't going to bring attention to it.

"I just want to sleep for a week," she muttered, her own eyes surveying the diner, presumably taking note of all the highly-strung residents.

"I know at least two people who will probably be more than happy to put you under a sleeping curse," he said, grinning. Perhaps later he'd mull over the fact that he'd come a to a point in his life where he was comfortable making fun of the crocodile cursing _anyone, _but for now, he was content to see the twitch of a smile on Emma's lips even as she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I'll pass on that," she said and Killian just winked.

They sat there in comfortable silence, sipping cocoa languidly, watching people come in and out of the diner, eyes occasionally meeting in a smile before the whole cycle began again. Despite the fact that they were hardly doing anything at all, he felt content. Home. And it didn't matter where the curse took him, as long as he was with her, his home.


End file.
